Branded

Of course it was peaceful here. For someone like me—someone who got a sudden taste of hope, a whisper that maybe I could avoid death—that was enough to make even a gilded cage feel safe.

But I forgot something.

I forgot where I was.

This was the devil's den. And silence? That was a luxury I'd never been meant to keep.

A sharp knock snapped through the room, cutting through the air like a slap. It echoed off the cold, high ceilings, too clean and polished to belong to a place run by monsters.

I jolted awake, heart racing. The blankets were too soft. The sheets smelled like detergent instead of mildew. For a moment, I was suspended between sleep and awareness—until the illusion shattered.

I didn't answer the knock. Not because I was defiant—no, it was because I didn't even get the choice.

The door creaked open anyway.

And then he walked in. Like he owned the place. Hell, maybe he did in his own way.

Tall, built like a soldier, dressed in black-on-black like a bodyguard out of a mafia-themed runway show, he moved with an unsettling kind of calm. Controlled. Efficient. The kind of man who didn't run—he hunted.

His eyes landed on me, and I instantly felt like an insect under glass. Cold. Calculating. Dangerous. Not wild like Salvo—no, Salvo was chaos in a tailored suit. This guy? He was methodical. The kind of danger that doesn't even blink while cutting your throat.

A smirk tugged at his lips.

"So... you're the boss's new plaything." His voice dripped with lazy amusement—deep, smooth, and cruel. "Cute."

What?! This bastard—

I hated that word—plaything—and I hated the way he said it even more. Like I was some chew toy tossed to the family dog.

I wanted to throw something at him. The lamp. A pillow. My soul.

But my survival instincts? Yeah, they were screaming, "Shut up and stay alive."

"Didn't think he had a type," he said, eyes dragging over me like I was a rat in silk sheets. "But then again… the boss always did enjoy breaking things that looked delicate."

I stared, teeth clenched.

"Who are you?" I asked, quieter than I meant to.

Ugh...I hated sounding small.

His smirk only grew, and he stepped further inside and dropped a plain black bag onto the table like it weighed nothing.

"Name's Enzo," he said casually. "Boss's left-hand man."

Oh.

Enzo. Right. That name. I remembered him from the novel. The man who ran Salvo's… extracurricular activities. Illegal casinos, weapon smuggling, debt collection, blackmail, murder, corpses—He was the man who made nightmares run on schedule.

So this was him.

The devil's left hand.

"Brought your stuff," he said, glancing at the bag like it offended him. "Clothes. Books. Whatever junk you had in that rat hole you called a home. You're welcome."

Was I supposed to say thank you for that?

"Thanks," I muttered casually, walking over to the bag. I unzipped it, checking to see if he actually brought everything—or if he 'accidentally' left out half my things just to be an ass.

His gaze stayed on me like a weight pressing between my shoulder blades. Then came the quiet laugh, low and smug.

"Damn. You really do look like a charity case."

I stared at him. Still silent.

"Don't pout, pretty boy," he added, flashing me a mocking grin. "You're in the boss's palace now. Just be a good little pet and wag your tail when he whistles."

One day, I will punch this man.

Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But someday—when I've either lost the will to live or gained enough money to vanish without a trace—I'll land one right on that smug, smirking face.

For now?

I smiled. Tight. Plastic.

"Thanks… for the charity." —you bastard.

Enzo smirked like I was the punchline to a bad joke and turned to leave. "Try not to bleed on the sheets. Egyptian cotton's a bitch to replace."

And just like that, he was gone.

Silence returned.

But it wasn't peaceful anymore. Not after that guy. It clung to the room like the lingering sting of cologne—sharp, expensive, and vaguely threatening.

I let out a long breath and ruffled my hair, muttering to myself, "Alright, let's unpack the things."

The bag sat there like it had a personality of its own. I crouched down and started pulling things out—folded clothes that still smelled faintly of cheap detergent, my worn-out hoodie, two mismatched socks (he really brought those?), a battered paperback novel with a folded cover, and—

"Oh, you did bring my toothpaste," I said, half-surprised. "How thoughtful, Enzo."

No response, obviously. Just the walls, watching like silent judges in a courtroom I never signed up for.

I kept unpacking. Clothes in drawers. Books are stacked neatly on the shelf. A sketchpad was tucked into the desk drawer, though I doubted I'd be doing much drawing in this luxury prison.

Still, the more I arranged, the more it looked… like mine.

Which was ridiculous. This wasn't home.

This was a cage dressed in velvet and glass. But even cages could be tidy.

I stepped back once I finished, taking in the view like some IKEA warlord. "Now it looks like it belongs to me," I mumbled with a satisfied smile, hands on my hips.

And then—

"I see. So you made yourself at home, huh?"

I flinched.

I spun around so fast I almost tripped over my own feet.

There he was—Salvo Mancini.

No knock. No sound. Just there, leaning against the wall like sin, wrapped in silk. Smirk lazily. Eyes lethal. That was the posture of someone who knew the room belonged to him—and so did everything in it.

Including me.

Before I could breathe, he was moving. Slow. Predatory. Like a man who already knew you couldn't outrun him, so why hurry?

"It's good you're settling in, tesoro..." His voice was pure velvet. Wrapped around a garrote.

Then he was in front of me. Too close. His hand brushed my waist. Possessive. Intentional. And I tensed like a live wire.

"Or else I would've had to force you."

And just like that… the illusion of comfort shattered again.

His gaze didn't waver as he looked at me—through me. Then, with a tilt of his head, he murmured lowly, "But isn't it strange?"

I swallowed.

He took a step closer. My back met the wall.

Salvo's gaze flicked downward, locking onto my lips. A ghost of a smirk danced on his face, something cruel and amused all at once.

"How can a person who's not even allowed to breathe without permission…" His eyes rose again, sharp and glinting under the low light, "…be adjusting so calmly?"

I didn't answer. Couldn't. My throat felt dry. My heart pounded against my ribs like it was trying to escape my chest.

Then—his thumb pressed gently against my lower lip. Rubbed it, slowly. Testing the shape of it. The softness. Maybe wondering how it'd feel between his teeth.

I froze.

He didn't blink. "But… whatever," he muttered, his voice silk-slick and slow. "It doesn't matter."

His thumb slid down from my lip to trace my jaw.

"Until you obey me… everything is good."

Then—his face dipped closer. Lips hovering just above mine. His breath washed over me, warm and slow, like he had all the time in the world.

My breath caught.

And then—he kissed me.

Not softly. Not kindly.

But like he owned me.

His lips crashed into mine with force and purpose, swallowing the last of my air. His hand moved from my waist to the back of my neck, gripping it firmly, angling my face how he wanted. His mouth was hot and demanding, teeth scraping against my lips like he didn't just want to kiss me—he wanted to brand me.

To mark me.

To make sure I remembered who I belonged to.

My hands gripped his shirt, unsure whether I was holding on or trying to push him away. But I didn't move. I couldn't. My mind went blank—erased by the sheer pressure of him, by the way his tongue forced past my lips and took without asking.

His other hand slid down to my lower back, possessive, controlling, like he needed to feel every part of me that was his.

Salvo kissed like he was trying to consume me.

And for a second—I think he could.

When he finally pulled back, I was breathless, dizzy, and my lips were swollen, and my chest was heaving. He stared at me, eyes dark and wild, breathing like he'd just tasted something forbidden and couldn't stop himself from going back for more.

Then he whispered, his voice brushing against my mouth, silk and steel all at once—

"See, tesoro? This is your new life."

I trembled. Hating the warmth in my chest. The blush in my cheeks. The ache in my lips. Because it wasn't just fear.

It was something darker.

And far more dangerous.

"This," he murmured, thumb brushing over my pulse, "is how it works now. I speak. You listen. I take. You give."

A pause.

Then, with a smile that could end worlds, "I like it when you're quiet."

I couldn't speak.

Didn't dare.

His thumb swept one last time across my lip, like he couldn't help himself.

"Clean up," he said, already walking away. "We dine in ten."

And just like that, he vanished.

The air felt colder.

But my skin? Still burned where he touched it.

I couldn't tell if I needed to escape… or if I'd already forgotten how.